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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23668420">Bargain Bin Beetle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternMaenad/pseuds/MidwesternMaenad'>MidwesternMaenad</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Two Halves Of A Whole Idiot [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Beetlejuice (TV 1989), Beetlejuice Animated, Dungeons &amp; Dragons (Roleplaying Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crossover, Crossovers &amp; Fandom Fusions, Gen, Of all the crossovers I expected to get into, but here we are, this was not one of them</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:48:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,131</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23668420</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternMaenad/pseuds/MidwesternMaenad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Beetlejuice passes time until his mirror is finally purchased.</p>
<p> Alternatively, "Who knew you could buy boyfriend material at your local antique store?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice) &amp; Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Two Halves Of A Whole Idiot [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bargain Bin Beetle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Author's Notes: As this involves a Dungeons and Dragons OC and is set in Faerun (nobody will get context for this until later, I apologize in advance), a lot of things on both ends were defined by dice rolls. To keep the story sleek, I decided not to tell you where those dice rolls were, but you should be able to tell.</p>
<p> Also, on another context note, I already spent way too much time on this, so I didn't want to waste more time by trying to look up medieval card games to use for the Card Game Section at the top here. And I was NOT about to look up every rule to Poker just for the sake of a bit. Therefore, Uno exists because I said so. I am allowed One Lazy Pass. Just one.</p>
<p>I hope you enjoy! This kind of thing is a lot of fun to write!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> In a darkened room, four identical figures sat hunched over a table, all in matching pinstriped suits. Each held a different amount of cards in hand, held close enough to their faces so that their neighbors couldn't see. Not that much could be seen in the room at all, given the only light source was that of a flickering, fluorescent green flame, dancing lazily in an old oil lamp on the table. It illuminated their cards, the tabletop, and their grim, determined faces. And that was it.</p>
<p> It also illuminated the card one of the figures set down. It appeared to be a lovingly painted card in red, showing a cross of four bones drawn on top. Then, the figure to his left passed him a sideways glance, before setting down a similar card. A cross of four bones, but drawn over-top a background of blue, instead.</p>
<p> That figure smirked, as the neighbor on <em>his</em> left groaned out loud. <em>"Awwww, c'mon!"</em></p>
<p> The Beetlejuice clone who had to draw cards wasn't happy about it, seeing as he already had a small deck of cards in hand, as he grumbled to himself behind a row of tightly grit, crooked upper teeth. <em>"If I don't get a <strong>blue</strong></em><em> in th' next <strong>five cards</strong>,"</em> he mumbled to himself, <em>"<strong>I'm</strong> gonna shuffle next, I <strong>swear...</strong>"</em></p>
<p> <em>"Yeah, like you wouldn't <strong>stack th' colors.</strong>"</em> The second Beetlejuice joked, as his neighbor drew two cards, before finally catching a break. He then threw down a blue card with two bones on it with a triumphant <em>"ha!"</em></p>
<p> The next and final Beetlejuice - the <em>original</em> - looked over the blue two, then back to his hand. He licked his finger with a long, striped tongue, before fingering through the even ten cards he had. He treated it like it were some big decision, methodical and thought out, so the clones on both his left and right grew nervous, while the clone across from him only got excited.</p>
<p> Only for him to put down another blue card. This time, printed with a wanted poster, showing an adorably dressed little skeleton with a big "X" of bones painted over the poster. From the way the first clone reacted, slumping forward, it wasn't good news for him.</p>
<p><em>"Dangit! I had <strong>such</strong> a good card for my turn!"</em> He swore. He then brought his cards forward so he could bury them into his forehead and sigh.</p>
<p>Beetlejuice didn't even flinch, merely reaching a hand over to pat his shoulder. <em>"It's alright, bugsy,"</em> he told him, <em>"you'll get t' play it <strong>next</strong> time."</em></p>
<p>The second clone put down the same Skip card, making Beetlejuice Number Three groan even louder. <em>"Really?!"</em></p>
<p><em>"Hey, if it <strong>shows up,</strong> it <strong>shows up!</strong>"</em> said Beetlejuice Number Two.</p>
<p> As Beetlejuice Number Three glared gothic daggers his way, Beetlejuice casually set down another card. This one was another blue card, but rather than having a set number of bones, it showed the same skeleton from the Skip card, now sitting in a dainty little bathtub, with "+II" painted ever so delicately along the side of the tub.</p>
<p> Beetlejuice Number One slowly turned his way, to which his original freed up one arm to set the elbow so casually along the table. One untrimmed eyebrow slowly lifted. Nothing else in his face changed, as he then barked a laugh - <em>"Ha! <strong>No!</strong>"</em> - and set down another Draw Two.</p>
<p> Both of their expressions turned to Beetlejuice Number Two, who looked excited as all get-out, despite appearances that he'd have to draw. He clapped his hands over his cards with a rather happy bounce. <em>"Ohhhh! Are we starting a chain?"</em> He asked, with all the joy of a bored wizard's college frat boy about to egg the Archmage's house. <em>"Are we, are we, are we? <strong>Fan-TASTIC!</strong>"</em></p>
<p> His head then turned into the shape of an industrial train whistle, and he whistled <em><strong>hard</strong></em>. This noise, however, got all three other Beetlejuices, original and clones, to jump up in their seats. And in perfect unison, all three of them <em>leapt</em> over the table to cover his whistling mouth, steam pouring between their fingers.</p>
<p> That clone stopped whistling immediately. Once he did, all four of them turned back toward the mirror's surface. Their only window into the world outside.</p>
<p> They saw nothing. Which wasn't all that different from what they usually saw, seeing as a heavy velvet curtain had been draped over the mirror a long time ago. But while they couldn't SEE if they disturbed anyone outside, footsteps still passed by the mirror as normal. Even though they'd gotten in trouble in the past, sometimes, folks in the antique store just didn't acknowledge when said antiques got loud.</p>
<p> Or maybe they just silenced Beetlejuice Number Two in time. Who looked particularly apologetic as the other three finally removed their hands, with a sheepish smile.</p>
<p><em> "R... right. My bad."</em> His apology was meek, with leftover locomotive smoke leaking from it. But the others didn't seem to care. They just relaxed once they knew they weren't in trouble. </p>
<p> They floated back down into their seats. They straightened up their chairs all nice. Beetlejuice Number One readjusted his tie, Beetlejuice Three had to re-button the one button he kept on his coat, and the original wiped visible sweat off of his brow. </p>
<p> All was quiet.</p>
<p> Then Beetlejuice Number Two put down <em>another</em> blue Draw Two card. The third clone looked like he was about to pop the exact same button, as he swiftly looked over the mini-deck in his hand, picking apart card, after card, after card.</p>
<p> He didn't have a blue Draw Two, but he <em>did</em> have one in red. Once he set that down, his neighbor on his right excitedly high-fived him, while Beetlejuice took a very, very deep breath. And drew six new cards.</p>
<p> <em>"Woo!"</em> Beetlejuice Number Three cheered, more to himself than the others. <em>"I don't have to draw this turn! Finally!"</em></p>
<p> <em>"You might be speaking too soon."</em> The first clone said, as he put down another blue Skip. This jumped right over Number Two, and brought the accursed color back to Three, without any change.</p>
<p> His mouth hung open. Then creaked shut with all the smoothness of an old castle door. Beady yellow eyes darted over his hand. Slowly. Nervously. He did a very good job of looking upset at first, as he pulled his cards to his chest with a theatrical - yet quiet - cry of pain, acting as if he'd been stabbed. <em>"No! <strong>No! </strong>Curses! Here I was, just feeling <strong>good</strong> about myself..."</em></p>
<p> He paused for dramatic effect, while the others looked on. And then the smile hit.</p>
<p><em> "... and I <strong>still am.</strong>"</em> He then said, as he dropped a familiar black card. Compared to the others, this card was painted with a jet black background, and showed the poor skeleton exploding from the background in a vintage style, with all four colored bones in the game - them being Red, Yellow, Green, and Blue - exploding out around him. A "+IV" was expertly painted into each corner.</p>
<p><em> "Draw Four, fucker!"</em> He then told Beetlejuice. Who rolled his eyes, took another tired breath - just as theatrical - and asked him, <em>"What color is it?"</em></p>
<p>
  <em> "Huh?"</em>
</p>
<p> <em>"It's <strong>Wild.</strong> What <strong>color</strong> is it, buddy?"</em></p>
<p> <em>"Oh! Right, right... "</em> He glanced his hand over. Had to pick a good color, of course! One he definitely knew he had! <em>"Uh, <strong>Yellow!</strong> We'll go with Yellow!"</em></p>
<p> In response, Beetlejuice casually set down another Wild Draw Four, making Beetlejuice Number One's eyes bug out.</p>
<p> <em>"Yeah, I don't think so. <strong>Red.</strong>"</em></p>
<p><em>"Wh - Bu - bu - but you can't <strong>do</strong> that!"</em> His first clone tried to say. He even asked Beetlejuice Number Two, <em>"He can't do that, c-<strong>can</strong> he?"</em></p>
<p>Number Two put a flushed finger to his chin and hummed. And hummed. And hummed. Very thoughtfully, one might add. When he answered him, he did so with the voice of a condescending pseudo-intellectual manchild, from the nasally tone of voice to the click of his tongue.</p>
<p><em>"Well, <strong>tech-uh-ni-cal-ly</strong>, we didn't say he <strong>couldn't.</strong>"</em> He told him. <em>"If you wanted to establish that as a <strong>rule</strong> - an' <strong>bold </strong>of you t' assume we would <strong>ever</strong> play by <strong>consistent rules</strong> - then you <strong>really</strong> should've said so <strong>beforehand.</strong>"</em></p>
<p>Beetlejuice Number One seethed for a good minute. Or pretended to, anyway. Before he also dropped his act, saying, <em>"Well, in THAT case..."</em></p>
<p><em>"I guess <strong>I</strong> can do it too!"</em> And with a witch's laughter, he set down another Wild Draw Four, making Number Two grin like a snake. <strong><em>"Green!"</em></strong></p>
<p>Beetlejuice Number Two didn't even bother keeping his pseudo-intellectual act up. He was already smug enough as it was, and Beetlejuice Number Three already looked so lost and confused. He figured it was best just to dump the salt in the wound and get it over with. And so he, too, set down a Wild Draw Four, with a slow, slithering arm, and a flick of the wrist.</p>
<p> Their third clone looked around. As his eyes danced between his fellow clones, his original, and his cards, his expression only grew progressively more upset. His grip on the cards went tight, and while his knuckles went white, the red from his fingertips traveled down - and subsequently, up - his body with growing anger. And as the other two clones laughed, a very red, very murderous looking clone glared at Number Two.</p>
<p> With fire in his eyes, he decided his revenge just couldn't be had in cards. As Beetlejuice Number Two was laughing with Beetlejuice Number One, the third clone took his chance. He coiled up and pounced on their second clone, like a red hot spring. From there, the two collapsed into a playful, if not furious, fight, mostly involving strangulation, headlocks, and a whole lot of biting.</p>
<p> Beetlejuice watched this with just about as much glee as a bored prisoner could have. He shared his second clone's grin from earlier, along with a handful of popcorn he had just summoned for the occasion. Thankfully their fight wasn't the noisiest, so it didn't run the danger of alerting anyone outside the mirror. But still, the way they tumbled about the room seemed to dishevel everything in its wake, from his poster bed curtains to the paintings along his wall. The room basically saw a second tornado, as the whirlwind of feisty clones flew on through. And nobody was there to see it.</p>
<p> At least, not at first. The customers outside of the mirror sounded normal at the time of the fight. Footsteps from cloth footwraps to nomadic sandals passed the mirror by, without even a sound stopping by to listen in on the action. This was normally the routine with the antique shop. Interested parties were so rare, Beetlejuice could count them on his hands, if he could remember how to count that far. Any time a potential new roommate walked up, Fruna always made sure to change the price on the mirror, wanting more depending on how affluent the customer in question looked. Or how potentially stupid.</p>
<p> Most of the folks Beetlejuice saw were nobles. Folks interested in a trophy, or a pretty talk-piece, rather than real company. So when his first clone heard the sound of gambeson boots nearly pass the mirror, then stop...</p>
<p> Well, he had to stop the others. He flew forward, just as Beetlejuice was about to cheer on another swing, then thrust his hand over his mouth. Beetlejuice struggled against it for a moment, his mouth full of popcorn. He hadn't heard it. He wasn't always as attentive as his clones were. But he knew well enough what the signal meant, when Beetlejuice Number One pointed toward the mirror face. As he did so, he heard another voice speak up. </p>
<p>This one had a Chondathan accent. Fruna was distinctly Damaran.</p>
<p> <em>"Was this here before...?"</em> Said the new customer. To which the other pair of footsteps - sandals with bells, so clearly Fruna - stopped dead in their tracks. As did Beetlejuice and his first clone, who looked to each-other in sync.</p>
<p> <em>"Oh, <strong>that?</strong>"</em> Fruna's familiar voice asked, in the same sense of false surprise as it always had when folks noticed the mirror curtain, <em>"Oh, <strong>no,</strong> we've had it in <strong>storage</strong> for <strong>ages!</strong> But it's been long enough, I felt we could <strong>finally</strong> drag it out..."</em></p>
<p> The two then hurried over to the fighting pair to break them up. This was a difficult effort, as any fight Beetlejuice had with himself was always a difficult one, to win OR to lose, especially when he really let loose with his powers to beat himself up. But they managed. Beetlejuice pried off his third clone with two more pairs of arms on his torso, while his first clone wrapped around the third with arms and legs like an octopus.</p>
<p> <em>"Enough, <strong>enough!</strong>"</em> Beetlejuice told them in harsh, hushed tones. <em>"Back <strong>off,</strong> Fido - "</em></p>
<p> The clone in question, at the nickname, sprouted a dog's face and teeth and tried to bite Beetlejuice instead of listening. To which he turned his hand into a muzzle to promptly clamp it over his clone's mouth, which shut with a whine. He then leaned his head in as closely as he could so he could quietly tell his clone to <em>"<strong>Listen!</strong>"</em></p>
<p> The four of them went quiet, as they listened to the two outside.</p>
<p> The customer's boots came closer. Slowly. Curiously. But Fruna's sandals were faster, stepping closer, then, in front of the approaching customer.</p>
<p>  <em>"Well, what's <strong>underneath?</strong>"</em> he asked her.</p>
<p> <em>"Oh, nothing <strong>you'd</strong> be interested in, I'm <strong>sure,</strong> Sir Roland!"</em></p>
<p> The name vaguely rang a bell. He had overheard her talking to some overly curious, snobby nobleman by the same name a few times before. Was this the same man? He couldn't tell on voice alone.</p>
<p> And yet, he knew her tone of voice. He knew where it was leading. Fruna was talking to someone she either considered a friend, an enemy, or both. This was going to turn into a con.</p>
<p> <em>"I know how you are about <strong>mirrors,</strong> and all,"</em> she slowly explained, <em>"so I <strong>doubt</strong> you'd waste your time with <strong>this</strong> one. Especially knowing <strong>your</strong> ugly mug could <strong>break</strong> it..."</em></p>
<p> Both of them were in for a surprise with his reply.</p>
<p> <em>"Oh! Actually, I could <strong>use</strong> a new mirror!"</em> He chimed in, his boots quickly stepping around her, while both she and her captive audience froze up. With about the same tone of voice, too!</p>
<p>
  <em> "What - ?"</em>
</p>
<p> There was a rustle to the curtain. It folded toward the upper left in the trademark way such a curtain would when taken by a hand, which caused Beetlejuice's clones to panic, and quietly call out, <em>"<strong>SCATTER!</strong>"</em></p>
<p> And upon calling it out, all three clones vanished, while Beetlejuice looked for a place to hide. He didn't notice that Sir Roland was stopped from lifting the curtain just yet, so, instead, he cleared the cards off of the table so he could turn <em>into</em> said table. It was the perfect cover!</p>
<p> <em>"Wait, <strong>don't</strong> - "</em> There was the sound of something being grabbed. Beetlejuice couldn't tell, he was in hide-and-seek mode. <em>"What do you mean, 'you need a new one?'"</em> Fruna asked him. <em>"What happened to your <strong>last</strong> one?"</em></p>
<p> <em>"Oh, there was, ah... there was an <strong>accident.</strong>"</em> Sir Roland explained, sounding none too proud. But while he <em>was</em> being honest, neither Beetlejuice nor Fruna could hear the slyness slipping in. <em>"I know! Me! Sir Roland Deloria, having an <strong>ACCIDENT</strong>? No <strong>wonder</strong> it's snowing..."</em></p>
<p> Fruna's stunned silence spoke <em>volumes.</em> He was <em>admitting</em> to slipping something up? <em>Really?</em></p>
<p> <em>"See, I was <strong>moving</strong> some of the <strong>furniture</strong> around my house, and... well, my <strong>friends</strong> had already gone <strong>home</strong> for the evening, so I didn't feel like bothering to <strong>ask</strong> them for <strong>help</strong>, so, I thought I could move my <strong>dresser cabinet</strong> on my own..."</em></p>
<p> <em>"Thennnnn<strong>whoops!</strong>"</em> He slid his boot along the floor with a laugh. <em>"Down it went!"</em></p>
<p> <em>"Your <strong>dresser</strong> mirror?"</em> Fruna asked. <em>"As in, your great, great, <strong>great grandmother's</strong> dresser mirror? <strong>That</strong> one?"</em></p>
<p> Beetlejuice didn't see the signal that Sir Roland gave. But he could hear both the phony sympathy and genuine surprise in Fruna, whatever she did to reassure him. <em>"Oh, Sir Roland, I'm <strong>so</strong> sorry to hear that! I know you loved that mirror more than <strong>anything</strong>..."</em></p>
<p>
  <em> "Oh, more than my great, great, great grandmother <strong>ever</strong> did! But a <strong>broken mirror</strong> is a <strong>broken mirror,</strong> and <strong>bad luck</strong> is <strong>bad luck.</strong> If she ever would've wanted me to do <strong>anything</strong> with it, getting <strong>rid</strong> of it was <strong>top priority!"</strong></em>
</p>
<p> He hesitated. <em>"... But it's left an <strong>open space.</strong> It looks so <strong>lonely</strong> there, and honestly, none of the other mirrors I've looked at quite fit my <strong>tastes...</strong>"</em></p>
<p> <em>This</em> was the word that snagged Fruna's interest. The ghost could hear it in her voice. The higher change in pitch. That subtle smoothness. <em>"Well, I'm so sorry to hear that... but..."</em></p>
<p> <em>"If it's a <strong>mirror</strong> for the old <strong>dresser</strong> you're looking for... then... perhaps... "</em></p>
<p> It was then the curtain folded into itself again, in the way Beetlejuice knew best. But he was already disguised, so he was ready! When that deep green curtain was thrown back, he sat as still as inhumanly possible!</p>
<p><em> "<strong>This</strong> - "</em> said Fruna, <em>" - will be to your tastes?"</em></p>
<p> On the other side of the mirror, he saw the customer for the first time. Sir Roland was a rather tall gentleman, taller perhaps than even him, with keen eyes, a fair complexion, and a head of thick, <em>luscious</em> black hair, underneath of a finely pillowed beret. He wore a thick green gambeson, complete with gloves and boots, underneath of a well-made tabard, which was colored in quarters of black and blue with an emblem of four golden finches in flight settled over-top.</p>
<p> Sir Roland's abnormally green eyes widened in interest as he looked the mirror over. And while it <em>did</em> act as a <em>prison</em> for the old ghost, Beetlejuice <em>did</em> have to say, he grew rather <em>fond</em> of the <em>style</em> of the old thing. It was a <em>very</em> old mirror, whose frame was cut from both stone and iron, with finely carved worms crawling up either side of it. The paint had, for the <em>most</em> part, faded from them, but bits and pieces of the black and white bands remained, and their eyes retained <em>exactly</em> as much potent crimson as they'd had when they were first painted.</p>
<p> Slowly, the customer approached. He was almost hesitant to touch the frame of the mirror itself, though one hand did hover oh so closely to it, as curious as a cat. Rather than risk the potential of tarnishing it, he instead brushed his gloved fingertips along the statuettes. The carved ridges along the Sandworm bands. The creases so <em>carefully</em> carved into their lips. Every chip, every crack, every crooked, rotten detail, he inspected with a <em>great</em> wonderment.</p>
<p> Fruna, though looking sweet as punch that she seemed to have hooked the nobleman in, still held a sort of faint shock in her eyes that Beetlejuice noticed. He'd never <em>seen</em> Sir Roland before, but from the conversations he'd <em>overheard,</em> the shopkeeper <em>normally</em> had a much <em>harder</em> time trying to sell him anything. The easiest sales were <em>"good luck"</em> items and <em>antique vases</em>, in the least. Whatever <em>vaguely interesting</em> or <em>spooky</em> items she mentioned otherwise, he veered away from with a revulsion he knew <em>all</em> too well.</p>
<p> He wasn't a man for "tastes" like that. Beetlejuice didn't know what <em>changed</em>, even as the eye pattern on top of the table looked him over. But hell if <em>he</em> was complaining. If the man actually <em>bought</em> him - if there was the <em>slimmest, slightest chance</em> he could find a way out - he could <em>tolerate</em> him. <em>Somewhat.</em> He was<em> not</em> fond of the rich.</p>
<p> Even if he didn't like the <em>sound</em> of him - though his <em>looks</em> were just fine, as he had the <em>wild hair</em> and <em>wicked eyes</em> romance novel damsels only <em>dreamed</em> of seeing - patience was <em>key.</em> No getting interested in customers if they didn't make the sale.</p>
<p> His fingers brushed over the frame just around the glass, but didn't touch in. If they <em>did,</em> they would've passed <em>right on through,</em> which would've blown both Beetlejuice's cover and Fruna's sale. Thankfully he kept his fingers off there.<em> "Wow... I've... I've never seen anything <strong>like</strong> this!"</em></p>
<p> <em>"I'd almost assume it to be of <strong>Yuan-Ti</strong> design, but the <strong>angles</strong> don't line up with their <strong>geometric designs</strong> quite the same way,"</em> Sir Roland said, sounding both informed and informal, as he pointed the triangular and rectangular shapes carved out along the frame, <em>"see? The <strong>triangular</strong> designs are set all <strong>over</strong> the place, and Yuan-Ti would rather see them <strong>aligned</strong> in a <strong>zig-zag</strong> pattern than this! And the cuboid stones here are <strong>incredibly</strong> dwarf-like in nature, whereas a Yuan-Ti would sooner <strong>die</strong> than taking inspiration from anything without a scale on it."</em></p>
<p> Fruna nodded along, but Beetlejuice couldn't tell if she was blowing him off - same as always - or if she was genuinely listening in. Could've been <em>both.</em> Hell if <em>he</em> knew. <em>"I <strong>know,</strong> right? And check out the creatures along the <strong>side,</strong> too!"</em></p>
<p>
  <em> "Right! While they <strong>love</strong> themselves serpentine shapes and figures, the <strong>curvature</strong> fits, but not the <strong>patterns</strong>! Why take away a snake's <strong>trademark fangs</strong> and replace them with this <strong>sharktooth-lip combination?</strong> I <strong>don't</strong> think they would!"</em>
</p>
<p> Sir Roland looked back to the mirror, still ever so interested. <em>"In fact,"</em> he added, <em>" I don't know <strong>any</strong> culture who has used these creatures before. They don't remind me of any <strong>religious</strong> serpentine iconography, they don't even <strong>resemble</strong> a <strong>Hydra</strong>... "</em></p>
<p> <em>"<strong>Definitely</strong> not, sir."</em> Fruna confirmed, stepping forward. She was the more <em>confident</em> one to set her hands on the mirror. But <em>outside</em> of customer view, she treated it with absolutely <em>none</em> of the respect. <em>"I would <strong>hate</strong> to tell you that this mirror is <strong>younger</strong> than the latest Yuan-Ti cultural findings, but <strong>I</strong> believe it <strong>is.</strong> So <strong>I</strong> wouldn't attribute it to them, either."</em></p>
<p> The fact she was even indulging his historical talk appeared to have Sir Roland very pleasantly invested, as he asked her very genuinely, <em>"Oh? Then how old do you think it is?"</em></p>
<p> Beetlejuice didn't remember how old it was. He lost count after the fifty-fifth year, so he knew it was much older than <em>that.</em> But <em>how</em> old it was specifically escaped him. He was <em>never</em> good with numbers.</p>
<p> Fruna probably didn't know either, but the number she bullshitted for him still felt wrong, somehow. <em>"I would give it... a <strong>five-hundred year</strong> marker, at <strong>least!</strong>"</em></p>
<p> And much to his surprise, Sir Roland actually caught the lie. His lips pulled into an uneven frown.</p>
<p>
  <em> "No, I... somehow don't think that's it."</em>
</p>
<p> <em>"Oh?"</em></p>
<p> <em>"Sure, the <strong>paint</strong> has worn off,"</em> he then explained, <em>"but there's still <strong>bits</strong> and <strong>pieces</strong> of the <strong>old color</strong> left! And the eyes are still a bright, <strong>furious</strong> red! If this mirror were at <strong>least</strong> above the five-hundred year mark, then there wouldn't be a <strong>touch</strong> of paint left on it! And I'm <strong>sure</strong> the statues would be in worse condition! <strong>And</strong> the glass!"</em></p>
<p> He had a fair point, even if he didn't know about the "glass." But that wasn't <em>his</em> fault. <em>Most</em> folks didn't notice.</p>
<p>
  <em> "<strong>I</strong> would say, with <strong>paint</strong> this worn down, but <strong>sculpting</strong> still intact... It would have to at <strong>least</strong> be younger than <strong>three-hundred</strong> years!"</em>
</p>
<p> Now <em>that</em> felt closer. Beetlejuice wasn't sure on the <em>specific</em> number. But it was <em>closer.  </em>And though Sir Roland <em>refused</em> to loom or tower over the shopkeeper, the way he stood firm before the mirror still gave him an imposing figure.<em>"I <strong>cannot</strong> gauge how old or how young it is on my <strong>own</strong>, but I <strong>have</strong> antiques older than five-hundred, Miss Holstein, and this doesn't come <strong>close!</strong>"</em></p>
<p> <em>"And I <strong>don't</strong> appreciate the fact you're trying to <strong>lie </strong>to me about it's age!"</em></p>
<p> At this, she bristled up. <em>"I <strong>wasn't</strong> - I - ...well, maybe I was overselling the age, yes,"</em> her faltering there didn't help when he did, in fact, catch her lying, <em>"but to my word, it's <strong>still</strong> the oldest thing we have! You at least know <strong>that!</strong>"</em></p>
<p> She wasn't lying there. He seemed to muse on it, before acknowledging that with a nod.</p>
<p><em> "And I very much don't know <strong>who</strong> made the mirror, or <strong>why</strong>..."</em> She then said, glaring back at the old mirror. Though Beetlejuice was disguised well, and he didn't feel like Fruna or Sir Roland had noticed him, it still felt like her glare was intended toward <em>him</em>, rather than the mirror itself. It didn't make him feel great. </p>
<p>
  <em> "But I know it's <strong>old.</strong> At least to <strong>us.</strong> And the <strong>older</strong> something is, the <strong>worse</strong> it ages."</em>
</p>
<p> That didn't feel fair to say. Beetlejuice hadn't aged a <em>day</em> since he died! And he didn't age when he was locked in <em>there,</em> either! He just got the feeling she didn't like him that much.</p>
<p>
  <em> "Except for <strong>wine!</strong>"</em>
</p>
<p> This comment distracted Fruna from her spite. Sir Roland happily added, <em>"And <strong>elves!</strong> Elves age <strong>wonderfully,</strong> I think! That <strong>vile racism</strong> the higher-class elves grow up with <strong>doesn't,</strong> however!"</em></p>
<p> <em>"Ha!"</em> Ah, that got a laugh out of her at least. <em>"You have a point, sir!"</em></p>
<p> <em>"But their <strong>art</strong> is good, at least!"</em> He looked away from the mirror toward something else, as he said this. But the ghost didn't know <em>what.</em> He couldn't even look that far, himself. His perspective was trapped in the view of the mirror. Whatever Sir Roland looked at, though, he looked at with a distant, but still <em>fond</em> appreciation. <em>"Even <strong>if</strong> it's old fashioned, the <strong>nouveau</strong> style of the High Elves <strong>always</strong> sells well. Though I think the <strong>Wood Elves</strong> could use more credit, for all their usage of <strong>flower language, fruit vines,</strong> and <strong>farmland wildlife,</strong> but that's just me!"</em></p>
<p>
  <em> "And don't even get me <strong>started</strong> on the Drow!"</em>
</p>
<p> It seemed he and Fruna had completely ideas on what to say here. As, at the same time he said <em>"Talk about <strong>underappreciated!</strong>"</em>...</p>
<p> ... Fruna instead said, <em>"Talk about <strong>tacky!</strong>"</em></p>
<p> Which caused <em>both</em> of them to <em><strong>immediately</strong> stop talking.</em> Fruna's mouth stayed shut, in a pleasant, but <em>startled</em> looking smile. While Sir Roland's mouth still hung open. The smile frozen to his face was one of <em>shock,</em> rather than <em>agreement.</em></p>
<p> <em>"... T... <strong>tacky?</strong>"</em> He asked her. And within the question, <em>Beetlejuice</em> was the only one to catch his <em>accent</em> wavering, not Fruna. For underneath the well-spoken <em>Chondathan,</em> he caught a glimpse of the <em>Tethyrian</em> the nobleman tried to hide. But the <em>specific</em> regional Tethyrian he actually knew <em>very</em> well, from a little village called <strong><em>Brooklyn.</em></strong></p>
<p> For a moment, he wondered how that place was doing. Before the shopkeeper decided to do herself and <em>them</em> the disservice of answering him honestly. <em>"I mean, we've talked about this <strong>before!</strong>"</em> She told him with an all too casual smile. <em>"The <strong>High</strong> Elves take the <strong>smooth, elegant shapes,</strong> almost directly from the <strong>Weave itself,</strong> the <strong>Wood Elves</strong> take <strong>their</strong> inspiration from <strong>nature,</strong> ever-changing, aye, that's all well and good--but what do the <strong>Drow</strong> use? What's <strong>their</strong> trademark?"</em></p>
<p> <em>"<strong>Cobwebs!</strong> Maddened spirits! The <strong>spiders</strong>, the <strong>bats</strong>, the <strong>rats</strong>, and then there's all the art about <strong>Lolth!</strong>"</em> She said the goddess's name with a <em>careless</em> kind of disgust. And yet, as she leaned against the counter to continue, not only was there not <em>one</em> Drow in her store to object, but none of the <em>other</em> customers - what <em>few</em> were there - spoke up about it, either. </p>
<p> And yet, the <em>more</em> she <em>spoke</em>, the <em>less</em> Sir Roland restrained his expression. <em>"Honestly!"</em> She went on, as his confused smile slowly fell. <em>"I've heard about them being brainwashed into worshipping her, from way back when, but you think after all this time, they'd maybe distance themself from her? Maybe decide to go after mushrooms instead? But they just stick to her like flies in a web! It's like they don't even try!"</em></p>
<p> Beetlejuice wasn't liking the direction it was taking. Though he still hid himself in plain sight, the eye pattern atop his table disguise grew narrow. If only he didn't have to <em>hide</em> himself from the customer, he would have <em>loved</em> to have given her a <em>piece of his mind</em>, right then and there. <em>Normally,</em> if she started <em>digging herself a grave</em> like that, he was <em>more</em> than happy to watch. But his <em>sale</em> was on the line here!</p>
<p> If the sale <em>failed</em>, he could always argue with her afterward, but...</p>
<p> The <em>nobleman</em> was a different story. As he looked over, he saw Sir Roland's gloved hands tighten into big, shaking fists. He seemed to hold them <em>so</em> tightly closed, if only he wasn't wearing those gloves, Beetlejuice probably could've seen his knuckles turn white.  </p>
<p> He didn't, of course. But he saw <em>something else</em>, while he was watching the customer's body language. And <em>he</em> saw it before <em>Fruna</em> did.</p>
<p> <em>"Why, just think about the <strong>Dwarves</strong>, for instance!"</em> She went on, at first. <em>"<strong>They</strong> live underground, the same as the Drow do, but they take <strong>their</strong> inspiration from <strong>better</strong> places! <strong>Gemstones! </strong>Jewelry! <strong>Underground rivers</strong> for <strong>embroidery</strong>, it's all in <strong>nature!</strong> Even... even the <strong>Duergar</strong> try to <strong>distance</strong> themselves from... their... "</em></p>
<p> As she looked back at Sir Roland, her words trailed off. Her smile stumbled. Faltered. And fell. Finally, she saw it.</p>
<p> It was his <em>eyes</em>. Human eyes usually had whites all around, with a little splash of color around the pupil. But <em>his</em> eyes didn't <em>have</em> those whites, or the same pupils, despite fitting the shape of the human eyelid. Instead, the green he'd seen before he only now noticed went all <em>throughout</em> the eye. And instead of being <em>round</em> in that moment, Sir Roland's pupils were too <em>slim</em>. Thin like sharpened daggers, and <em>seething</em> with a cold, well composed <em>fury</em>.</p>
<p> <em>Those eyes weren't human.</em> They were still <em>sharp.</em> Still <em>wicked.</em> Still <em>wonderful.</em> But they just <em>weren't human.</em></p>
<p> His eyes weren't <em>always</em> like that, were they? Or had she'd just never taken the time to <em>look</em> before? Regardless, she noticed them <em>now</em>. And with the look he gave her, she looked like she suddenly didn't want to finish that particular sentence.</p>
<p> <em>"Why, miss Holstein, that is such a <strong>bold statement</strong> to make..."</em> Sir Roland said, with all the slow insidiousness of poison. <em>"... considering your background in the <strong>occult.</strong>"</em></p>
<p> Her shoulders sank. Her customer's did not. And as opposed to her loud, seemingly confident side of the conversation, he seemed enough the courteous one to keep his volume down when he continued, so the other customers didn't know they were having such a disagreement.</p>
<p> But he sure wanted her to know that. <em>"And considering the similarity in their <strong>location</strong> and <strong>craftsmanship,</strong> I find it... <strong>unfortunate</strong>, how readily you'll excuse the Dwarves and <strong>their</strong> ilk for their <strong>underground imagery,</strong> while throwing their elven <strong>neighbors</strong> under the cart."</em></p>
<p> <em>"And that's not even <strong>beginning</strong> to take into account all of their <strong>religious artwork</strong>. Or their <strong>wartime murals</strong> involving the poor <strong>Goblins</strong> they so frequently war with, whose art you <strong>also</strong> haven't brought up, conveniently enough. But because <strong>Dwarven</strong> handiwork <strong>so</strong> much more visually <strong>appealing</strong>, because you can <strong>understand</strong> it so easily, you would take <strong>their</strong> work over the Drow without a second thought."</em></p>
<p> From the way she kept darting between Sir Roland's intimidating eyes and the nearby countertop, she must have debated even <em>replying</em>. She must not have thought he'd disagree this <em>much</em>, this... <em>intensely.</em> <em>"Y - <strong>you're</strong> one to talk - "</em> She tried to say. <em>Tried</em> to defend herself. Tried and failed. <em>"In the past, you've spoken <strong>at length</strong> about <strong>your</strong> dislike of the <strong>Yuan-Ti</strong> - "</em></p>
<p> <em>"- And yet,"</em> he interrupted her, with a lifted, oddly sharp finger, <em>"<strong>I</strong> still pay their art the <strong>respect</strong> it <strong>deserves.</strong> Did you notice that? Were you even <strong>paying attention?</strong>"</em></p>
<p> <em>"Or were you trying - and <strong>failing</strong> - to find a topic for me to <strong>relate</strong> to, so that way you could more easily coax me into an <strong>expensive sale</strong>, and so you weren't thinking about <strong>my</strong> view on the matter at <strong>all?</strong>"</em></p>
<p> Her silence spoke <em>volumes.</em> The tension between them was so thick, Beetlejuice could've cut a slice of <em>cake</em> out of it. And he would've enjoyed <em>every bite.</em></p>
<p>
  <em> "... That's what I thought."</em>
</p>
<p> Sir Roland was the one to break that silence, of course. He let his hands relax, and he let his shoulders fall. The ghost swore his <em>hair</em> fell down some as well, but he was wearing such a <em>hefty</em> beret, it was hard to tell. He relaxed, so that <em>she</em> could. At least in <em>body,</em> if not in <em>voice. "Miss Holstein, I've purchased from you <strong>before</strong>. Even when I haven't <strong>wanted</strong> to, I've <strong>indulged</strong> you. I'm an <strong>easy catch</strong>. I <strong>acknowledge</strong> that."</em></p>
<p> <em>"I <strong>also</strong> acknowledge the fact that, considering your..."</em> He mused over the most <em>polite</em> word to use in this situation. And looked to have a <em>great deal</em> of difficulty doing so. He eventually settled on... <em>"<strong>picky</strong> clientele, I'm also your most <strong>profitable</strong> catch. So if I happened to, say, <strong>take</strong> that opinion to heart, take my pretty little <strong>purse</strong>, and walk my pretty little ass <strong>out</strong> of here, that wouldn't be too <strong>good</strong> for you, now, <strong>would</strong> it?"</em></p>
<p> Beetlejuice could see how tightly she held her jaw. Her reply came hesitantly, from a mouth of gritted teeth and a well of shame. <em>"N... no, it... wouldn't... be."</em></p>
<p> And that answer seemed to satisfy him. For the moment. When he smiled, it was <em>miraculous</em> how quickly he recovered. His pupils went back to normal, though the ghost in the mirror still took to heart the fern fever green that conquered the space where human eye whites should've been, and all the tension seemed to melt from his body with a <em>practiced</em> ease. How quickly and how subtly he could go from an <em>intimidating</em> customer to an <em>ideal</em> one was something his captive audience was tempted to ask about. But Beetlejuice <em>resisted</em> that temptation, <em>somehow</em>.</p>
<p> <em>"Then</em> <em>I believe we have an understanding!"</em> He then cheerily told her. The customer clapped his hands together. <em>"If you don't take <strong>me</strong> for a fool, I won't take <strong>you</strong> for one! <strong>Simple</strong>!"</em></p>
<p> In response, she flashed him a silver dagger smile and quickly jumped back onto her sale. Probably in hopes of just getting him out. Most likely. <em>"Then do you still <strong>want</strong> the mirror, Sir, or - "</em></p>
<p> <em>"Oh, <strong>absolutely!</strong>"</em> He didn't even <em>hesitate</em>, there. <em>"I love it to <strong>pieces</strong>! Of <strong>course</strong> I'll still buy it! If you're still willing to sell, at least!"</em></p>
<p>
  <em> "If it gets rid of both you and the mirror, <strong>happily</strong>!"</em>
</p>
<p> He genuinely laughed at that, and so did she. Whether she did so out of genuine <em>humor</em> or genuine <em>hatred</em> was anyone's guess, but Sir Roland's laugh was only one of cheer.</p>
<p><em> "So how much is it, then?"</em> He asked, only to balk at the deadpan price she dropped.</p>
<p>
  <em> "<strong>Five-hundred</strong> <strong>Gold.</strong>"</em>
</p>
<p> He cringed so fiercely, Beetlejuice <em>felt</em> that one. He wasn't at all surprised. The last guy that asked, she told him it was <em>four-hundred</em>, instead, and he almost had a <em>heart attack.</em> If only he <em>did</em>, it would've been the <em>funniest</em> reaction he'd seen so far. But alas. As a ghost with <em>very empty pockets</em>, he almost felt <em>bad</em> for the guy.</p>
<p> Who took a deep breath, keeping as pleasant an expression as he possibly could when he replied. <em>"Miss Holstein..."</em></p>
<p> <em>"Aye?"</em></p>
<p>
  <em> "You know that's... my <strong>entire</strong> self-love shopping budget..."</em>
</p>
<p><em> "Aye, yeah, I know."</em> She nodded. Her smile was a bit more authentic, saying that. <em>"A horrible coincidence, I'd say."</em></p>
<p>
  <em> "I'll say! Especially considering that's not the <strong>actual price tag!</strong>"</em>
</p>
<p> Both the shopkeeper <em>and</em> her audience froze, at that. Beetlejuice was more stunned and, dare he say it, <em>intrigued</em>, while Fruna was justifiably close to <em>fuming</em>. <em>"E... excuse me?"</em></p>
<p>
  <em> "I set that price <strong>myself</strong> when I put it out for sale! I <strong>know</strong> my product's price, sir! "</em>
</p>
<p> To which he leaned back at her alarm, playing clueless. Oh. Oh, the ghost knew an <em>act</em> when he saw it. Was this going to be good? <em>Was</em> <em>it?</em> He tried not to let his table shape distort too much as he leaned forward, watching her face fall, as Sir Roland was so kind and helpful to point at the top of the mirror and say, <em>"Because your price tag is still <strong>on</strong> it."</em></p>
<p> Beetlejuice knew that old Fruna never put an <em>actual</em> tag on his mirror. Not <em>once</em>, in all the years she tried to sell him! But as she turned to look where her customer pointed, he saw her expression drop like a pin. Confused, bewildered, she wasn't so professional scrambling over to the mirror to pull it off, showing to her ghostly companion that yes, there was in fact a <em>price tag</em> that had been sitting on the upper right mirror corner.</p>
<p> Which was a place he remembered Sir Roland's <em>hand</em> had been before. As the shopkeeper took the tag down to inspect it, he tried his best to get a look at it too. And from what he saw, it used the same <em>parchment paper</em> as her price tags, the penmanship looked almost <em>identical</em> to her own... it was even <em>aged</em> appropriately!</p>
<p> While Fruna fought with herself over the tag, continually speaking to herself in small snippets as she struggled to process it being there, he looked back to the customer's face. Only to see that smug smile from earlier make a comeback. A grin that lovingly creased his cheeks from ear to ear. It was such a wonderful face to see, both satisfied <em>and</em> satisfying. He just looked like the cat who caught the biggest fish in town. He knew he did.</p>
<p> And now Beetlejuice knew, too. He hadn't seen anyone do that in <em>so long!</em> And to <em>Fruna Vol Holstein</em>, no less! It took every ounce of self control he had to not bounce and dance his little table legs around! This was <em>GREAT</em>!</p>
<p> All the while, Fruna struggled to rationalize it all. She looked it over corner to corner, flipped it back and forth. Still, somehow, she couldn't see through it. </p>
<p>
  <em> "But... I... I <strong>didn't</strong>... when did... "</em>
</p>
<p> <em>"Wasn't it... didn't I <strong>move</strong> it before?"</em> She asked herself, scratching her jaw, while Roland watched in the background. <em>"Or <strong>did</strong> I? Fuck... how long ago <strong>was</strong> it...?"</em></p>
<p> As she looked back his way, Sir Roland's face went smoothly back to that "clueless customer" face he'd had before. He tilted his head in a manner almost childlike.</p>
<p> <em>"Everything alright, miss Holstein?"</em> He asked, so politely. So <em>professionally</em>.</p>
<p> Her scratching slowed. She scanned his face for a moment, before slowly looking back to the tag. <em>"I... y... yeah, no, everything's <strong>fine</strong>!"</em> She tried to say. <em>"Everything's fine! I'm just... I could've <strong>sworn</strong>..."</em></p>
<p> Eventually, she gave up the ghost. So to speak. <em>"Well, I... guess I <strong>didn't</strong> take it off, <strong>did</strong> I? <strong>Shit</strong>..."</em></p>
<p>
  <em> "So, what price is it, then?"</em>
</p>
<p> She didn't want to read it. She really didn't. She didn't like the price on it at all, and Beetlejuice could so, <em>so</em> easily see it. He wondered if that clever customer could, too. He wasn't dropping his clueless act just yet.</p>
<p> She took a deep breath, and told him, so very hesitantly, <em>"Two-hundred Gold...?"</em></p>
<p> Which brightened his face up <em>immediately</em>. He bounced up like a giddy schoolboy, almost. <em>"Oh, that's <strong>so</strong> much better!" </em>he chimed.<em> "That's <strong>delightful</strong>! I'll take it!"</em></p>
<p> The only thing that seemed to keep her from deflating altogether was the <em>sheer relief</em> she must have felt that he decided to buy it. The way she finally slumped, the sigh of dead air she let out... she'd wanted Beetlejuice gone for <em>years</em>. Fighting a price tag she "didn't remember" putting on the mirror just would've been <em>insult to injury</em>, at this point.</p>
<p><em> "That's... wonderful!"</em> She instead answered him, with the customer service smile Beetlejuice knew so well. Much more professional than she was earlier. <em>"That'll be two-hundred, then!"</em></p>
<p> Which her customer happily counted out from the velvet pouch on his hip. Though made of genuine crushed velvet as it was, it looked less like an actual <em>money purse,</em> and more like the pouch certain affluent <em>breweries</em> made for their <em>specialty</em> products. But maybe he was just reading too much into it. It could've been that.</p>
<p> Sir Roland <em>did</em> count out an extra <em>fifty</em>, however. He tossed it into the pouch and happily handed it to her.</p>
<p> She didn't seem to get why, so she started to say, <em>"Uh, Sir Roland..."</em></p>
<p><em>"The extra is for dealing with me."</em> He stage-whispered to her.</p>
<p> She tried so very hard not to smile at that. But she accepted it, regardless.</p>
<p>
  <em> "Eh, y'know what, I'll take it."</em>
</p>
<p> The exchange was over before they knew it. He didn't need any extra equipment to carry the mirror, as it wasn't a full <em>body-length</em> mirror, but only <em>waist-length</em>, and she <em>definitely</em> didn't want to give him one of her good curtains, so, when the nobleman took the mirror and left, he did so with <em>only</em> the mirror in his arms. </p>
<p> It was an ungainly sight, seeing such a well dressed gent carrying an odd-looking mirror in both of his arms in an <em>awkward</em>, <em>tangled</em> fashion... but nobody gave it a second glance. They had their own things to do. Their own lives to live.</p>
<p> And now, so did Beetlejuice. He had to do <em>everything</em> in his power to not <em>bounce</em> around his little room at <em>Mach</em> <em>5</em> as the transaction was processed. As he couldn't make any noise until he left the store, and he didn't want to <em>frighten</em> <em>away</em> the man who just bought his mirror, he tried to keep as <em>quiet</em> as he could. This meant he couldn't exactly host a <em>party</em>, or summon a bunch of <em>clones</em> to <em>dance</em> with, or bounce around and <em>wreck</em> his room. But if there was <em>any</em> kind of stimming he could do, he could <em>tap</em> <em>his</em> <em>feet</em>! And tap them he did until he was practically <em>bouncing</em> them off of his phantasmal stone floor!</p>
<p> The world around him was <em>beautiful</em>! Normally it was a word he tried to <em>avoid</em>, because beautiful didn't have the best <em>connotations</em> with him, but it was <em>different</em> here. He didn't realize they were into the depths of <em>Deepwinter</em>. How <em>wonderful</em> it all looked, to have snow blanketing the ground in thick, quilted sheets. Hearing the snow <em>crunch</em> beneath Sir Roland's boots, and the hooves of the horses that rode on by, drawing their humble carriage behind them. The way the street lamps illuminated the road as the last of the sun's light faded from view...</p>
<p> Even if he couldn't jump out of the mirror to enjoy it <em>physically</em>, it completely recharged him <em>emotionally</em> speaking. It was a <em>weird</em> feeling. <em>Good</em>, of course! Just <em>weird</em>! He figured all those doctors who said "<em>fresh</em> <em>air</em>" and "<em>sunlight</em>" would help his mental health were <em>quacks</em>, but hey, apparently they were <em>onto</em> something! And hey...</p>
<p> How could he say no to a wonderful walk home in the snow?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written while listening to MyNoise's Winter Walk! Settings found here! https://mynoise.net/NoiseMachines/winterSoundscapeGenerator.php?l=63294330130000001819&amp;m=&amp;d=0</p>
<p>P.S. Editing is pain! Pasting a story from notepad to ao3 and cleaning it up is exhausting! Nobody gives their editors enough credit, seriously! I spent all day double, triple, quadruple checking this thing for typos and errors, so if you spot any, please point them out to me, so I can proceed to fix them and cry afterward! Thank you!</p>
<p>P.S.S. This got the DM's seal of approval! Hooray!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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